


Designer

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Boot Worship, Dominance, Ficlet, M/M, Power Play, Public Humiliation, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 16:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5878234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Abraxas makes a mistake and must pay penance to Tom’s cheap shoes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Designer

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

They’ve already begun, though only by half a sentence, when Abraxas strolls into the sitting room. He grins as broadly as if it were his own estate instead of Lestrange’s, and he walks right into the center of the room, over the thick rub laid before the fire, and ignores the empty wooden in chair in favour of the sofa. Tom’s lounging on the other side, the rest of his followers scattered about in their own seats—no one else would dare sit so close to him. But Abraxas—the only one of them Tom even bothers to refer to by first-name—has become all too aware that he’s the favourite.

He dips his head to Tom anyway in a pseudo-bow, platinum blond ponytail tumbling over one shoulder. As he straightens out, Tom muses, “You’re late.”

“I apologize,” Abraxas purrs, with all the air of an aristocrat. His pointed features lose none of their haughtiness. “I was updating my wardrobe; one has to look good for these sort of things.” As though no one could disagree, he abruptly crosses his legs and conspicuously flicks his foot. “The latest of Enrique Dehliea, the most expensive boots a wizard can buy.” The pride in his eyes betrays how much he’s foolishly invested. Across the room, Nott rolls his eyes. Not a one of the others indulges Abraxas’ preening. To Tom, Abraxas throws: “I wouldn’t wish to look under-dressed in your presence.”

Tom lifts an eyebrow but says no more. He hasn’t decided yet if he’s more amused or annoyed. If one of the others diverted one of his meetings so, he’d crucio them for hours. Unfortunately, half of Abraxas’ use is in his looks, and his style is all together polished; torture would ruin his value. Lestrange, perhaps the bravest of the group, grumbles, “We have important matters to discuss, and you were off _shoe shopping._ ”

“Shoes do make the man,” Abraxas silkily replies, smirk fixed in place. “We can’t all go around looking as hideous as Mulciber.” Tom lifts his other brow, and Nott, perhaps the smartest, tenses preemptively.

Mulciber icily retorts, “I’m wearing the same shoes as our esteemed leader.”

The smirk slips right off Abraxas’ face. He looks, paler than usual, down at Tom’s feet. The last bit of colour drains from his cheeks. The rest of Tom’s gathered followers are leaning so far back in their chairs that it’s a wonder they don’t just bolt for the door. When Abraxas finally lifts his head, he whispers, “I... I—”

“It’s alright,” Tom smoothly drawls, turning away for the cowering wreck beside him. None of the others relax; one of Tom’s greatest strengths is his unpredictability. To Mulciber, Tom announces, “Malfoy loves my footwear, don’t you?” The last bit is directed back at Abraxas.

Abraxas hurriedly nods and gulps, “Of course.” He would say nothing else. The sofa is small enough that Abraxas is less than an arm’s length away, and Tom finds it easy to reach out and tuck Abraxas’ ponytail back over his shoulder. Abraxas shivers at the touch. But he leans submissively into it, just like any of them would. They’re bullies in every day life, cowed servants at his feet. Just to keep them all on edge, Tom traces down Abraxas’ high cheekbone and enjoys the way Abraxas grey eyes avert but dilate. He’s a pretty thing, when he’s not being entirely too insufferable, insolent or mooning over shoes. 

Yet he needs to be put in his place, so Tom drawls, “In fact, he likes them so much that he could kiss them.”

Abraxas’ eyes dart back. He nods his head and utters, “Yes.”

Tom clarifies, “Do it.”

Abraxas doesn’t need to be told twice. He slips from the sofa the second Tom’s hand has left him, crawling to the floor and around to Tom’s feet, where he perches on hands and knees. It seems strangely out of character: tall, proud Abraxas Malfoy down on all fours, but Tom’s enjoyed the sight many times. This is the first occasion for it to happen in front of others. Abraxas usually flourishes under an audience, but for this he’s oddly tentative. Tom leans back in the sofa, legs slight spread. Abraxas licks his thin lips, then leans down to brush them over the tip of Tom’s boot. With all of Abraxas’ joy in fashion, Tom’s are, indeed, plain: industrial things meant for purpose, not pride. Abraxas lingers over the black leather, evidently not daring to do a half-ass job, then drifts to the right boot and bestows another firm kiss.

Abraxas’ head has only lifted a few centimeters when Tom casually asks, “Do you like them?” Abraxas releases a breath, head still hung, and Tom lifts his foot to nudge beneath Abraxas’ chin, lifting it. He isn’t particularly surprised to see a fog over Abraxas’ eyes.

Husky, Abraxas murmurs, “I adore them, my lord.” 

Tom allows an incremental grin. If they were alone, he would coo, perhaps in Parseltongue: _good boy._

But they have an audience, and this is about Tom’s control and his pet’s devotion. So he continues the game, asking, “Would you like the honour of cleaning them?”

Abraxas answers, “Yes, please.” He’s forced to stay up as long as Tom’s shoe is against his chin, but Tom slowly lowers it, pressing the tip into Abraxas’ collarbone and running down his chest before falling away. Abraxas’ cheeks are flushed.

He lowers obediently and opens his mouth, dragging his tongue all the way from the tip to heel of Tom’s boot, where Tom’s trousers cover the top. Abraxas then licks his way back down, right over the laces, and curves to the side, his body curled against the floor. He’s never looked so pathetic. 

He does it anyway, lapping away at the leather like it’s just him and Tom’s boot in the room. Tom mostly observes him, watches his pink tongue dart out and his shoulders flex beneath his expensive suit, but soon Tom diverts his attention enough to sweep the room. A few look uncomfortable, others worried, though they needn’t fear; their mouths, Tom would never let near him. Lestrange looks actively jealous. Abraxas is shameless and licks over both shoes with a growing fervour, until his entire body’s rocking with it, his hips grinding subtly into the carpet. While he’s on the right boot, Tom lifts it, Abraxas whining and following it, open-mouthed.

Abraxas smartly doesn’t move off hands and knees. Tom orders, “Stay,” like telling a dog. Abraxas listens and meekly lowers back down. Tom puts his foot on the back of Abraxas’ skull, lightly pushing Abraxas down. He gets too large a thrill out of the _power_ , the pleasure of knowing he could end Abraxas’ life now, and Abraxas has handed that power right over.

But in the end, Tom only slides his boot down Abraxas’ cheek to rest on the floor, and Abraxas returns to lapping at it. It’s gone far past the pretense of ‘cleaning’—now Abraxas is just proving his dedication. Simply to perpetuate it, Tom asks, “Enjoying yourself, Malfoy?”

Abraxas nods but doesn’t answer; his mouth is full as he stretches it wide around the toes of one boot, body twisting so that his side is laid down along the floor. His hands are curled into fists, useless and bent away. Tom pistons his shoe lightly into Abraxas’ mouth and eyes the rest of Abraxas’ body. His hips keep turning to the floor, dragging his crotch along it—it’s obvious to everyone that he’s made himself hard. Like most of those in attendance, all Abraxas craves is Tom’s approval. And unlike the rest, Abraxas has had it in private—had his hands in Tom’s hair, his thighs spread over Tom’s lap, his mouth open to Tom’s tongue or fingers or cock. Abraxas writhes now like the doll he’s become, meant primarily for _pleasure_.

Tom takes a few moments to decide if he wants to order Abraxas to spill himself before all his companions, or if it would be better to send the crowd away and use him properly. Tom contemplates stripping Abraxas bare—save for his new, expensive boots, of course—and have him hump himself to completion with his cock caught between Tom’s feet. The idea of Abraxas licking seed off Tom’s boots is certainly arousing, but Tom can’t allow himself to be sullied before an audience. While he thinks, Abraxas rolls on, kissing and licking up Tom’s foot, reaching his trouser leg and risking a few kisses beyond the leather, up to Tom’s knees, where Abraxas hangs his head in Tom’s lap and breathes, “ _Please, my lord._ ” He’s practically trembling, radiating _lust_. Mafloys don’t say please lightly.

And Tom doesn’t strip before an audience, but he’s going to have to if he wants to stuff his cock inside Abraxas’ pliant body, which he now very much wants to. 

Without his eyes leaving Abraxas’ flushed face, Tom grunts, “Out.”

There’s only a slight shuffle, full of hesitation, and Tom snaps up, growling again, “Out!” This time, they all jump to attention, scurrying for the door, grown men tripping over one another to be gone from his presence. Abraxas stays on his knees, breathing hard. 

Then Tom yanks him up by the hair, relishing the cry it earns, and starts ripping at the expensive clothes that cling to his supple frame. When he’s naked but for the boots, Abraxas falls delightedly into Tom’s lap and purrs, “I’ll buy you new ones tomorrow.”


End file.
